Renegade ministers are tired of penitent water.
They are perfect substitutes for giant cellos
Filled with rum and tequila like the tires of their cars.
Like instead of learning to get lost, squirrels
Grow voluptuous plants on the pavement
And throw steering wheels into the sky.


Once upon a time a trollop hid
a brick within a brick, a tree
within a tree, a ghost within
a ghost, a monstrous wave within a grain of sand, a seagull
inside her mouth, and a crab
The city doesn’t know.
Each day someone invents a means to record their dreams on the riverbed.
There is an endless party going on,
everyone feels happy like an idiot,
musicians die in elevators watching their flesh disappear in the booze they have consumed.
Retired generals imbibe tequila looted on Mars out of radios and lampshades
and blow their noses into ancient curtains. They have a cannon
which can destroy a horde of spirits even if they whisper all at once into your ears
too many stories to take in. It has been never used.